


Making Room

by kissing2cousins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Banter, Dreams and Nightmares, Kissing, M/M, New Relationship, Real Life, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are admittedly rather new to this whole being together thing, on more fronts than just one.  This is one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bbcsherlockian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/gifts).



ADF

 

John awoke abruptly, the ring of gunfire resounding in his mind, the smell of sand and smoke still strong on his palate, his skin damp with perspiration.  His body went rigid, fighting the urge to spring forward, up, into motion, as his mind restrained the battle-ready instinct that accompanied the flashing memories of war that impregnated his dreams most nights.  The mental strain caused his right thigh to light with pain that crackled hot and real up and down the nerve endings.  Almost as instinctively as he had refrained from jumping into action earlier his right knee drew up under the blankets of the bed and his palms gripped around the epicentre of the electrifying pain, massaging the injury that had ended his tour and brought him home to London—to 221B Baker Street.

The room was quiet around him and dark, yet as the pain dissipated the soldier found it hard to relax.  His eyes were still open, blankly staring at the darkened ceiling of the flat.  His hands drew back, coming to lay on his torso just beneath his sternum, as he pushed a frustrated sigh from his lips.  He hoped to hell this wasn’t the end—the end of a good night’s sleep.  When he forced his eyes to close and sighed again, as though his mind was capable of willing itself back into a deep enough slumber to sleep soundly until at least dawn, the doctor in him reminded him of the improbability of such a thing successfully happening. 

This only served to double his mounting frustrations.  How many nights had his very realistic memories of fighting and gunfire, mortar and shell explosions woken him from his sleep, ultimately hindering his efforts to keep up not only with Sherlock Holmes’ sharp mind, but also his physical speed and agility.  Despite the fact that the other man boasted nearly 15cm above him, mostly in the athletic length of his legs, Sherlock was beyond the average definition of predictable.  John never knew when he might need to sprint through debris filled alleys, over seven foot fences, or along the precipice of a building, all of which were performed with more skill and less danger when one was fully rested.

John cursed, for a lack of better argument with himself, and defiantly rolled over—straight into a pointed elbow.  The bone nailed the soldier straight in the infraorbital margin between the bottom nasal corner of his right eye and the bridge of his nose.  The pain this caused was acute but receded quickly, as he shot back from the offending appendage with a groan of complaint.  Once more the doctor found himself restraining his natural instinct, which was to belt the other man in the ribs and force the lanky limbs to the other side of the double bed that they currently shared.

John curbed his irritation by beating a fist into his pillow, as he shifted his body back and away, shoving it back under his head.  The other man noticed, obvious in the way that his torso shifted on the mattress, the way his legs curled upwards and then back, as he rolled onto his side.  Those full lips smacked, a deep cleansing breath drawn into the lungs, as Sherlock mumbled, almost incoherently, “Sorry ‘bout that, John.”

“No, you’re not.” Came the snapped retort, quicker than the doctor was capable of thinking ahead of himself right then.

There was a heavily exhaled breath that ruffled a few dark curls and through the darkness of the cramped room the doctor could still see the quirk that jumped upwards at the corner of the eccentric man’s lips—giving the other an exceptionally wicked look even though those piercing eyes, which had the strange and seductive ability to shift from blue to green, on a whim it seemed or perhaps with the severity of the man’s level of excitement, were still softly closed.  Dark lashes fanned out from under them, over the pallor of his skin.  John was thankful at that moment that the man’s eyes were closed.  To shift his attention away from the very real fact that the way the other’s mouth was turned had sent most of the soldier’s blood draining southward, John grappled that stray thought of the man’s rare eye condition, allowing himself to mull the definition of _sectoral heterochromia_ over in his mind.  The distraction did little to hinder the swelling and the feeling of butterflies that danced irritatingly in his gut.

“You’re right.” The other man quipped coyly, those damn dangerous eyes snapping open, as though the self-proclaimed detective had somehow bypassed the groggy stage that lingered before waking that most ordinary people faced before full alertness.  Cool fingers shot out and captured the doctor around the middle, very effectively closing the distance between the two bodies in the bed.

That time John couldn’t resist his own natural instinct.  The proximity of the other man was still foreign, still new, still uncomfortably alluring and unnatural.  So much so that the determination and dominance in the succinct action overrode the doctor’s better judgement.  There was a flail of limbs and a sharp intake of breath that was rapidly followed by a dull thud and a cursing groan, elicited now from somewhere below.  There had been nowhere to shove off to.  John realized that now, from where he laid on the cool floorboards, his fall cushioned only by the mess of papers, trousers—John quickly extracted the stray test tube from beneath the small of his back, thankfully unbroken—and dress shirts that lay in tangles just about everywhere in Sherlock’s small room.  It was safe to say that sleeping was now a lost cause. 

The other man’s faintly curious smirk from over the edge of the mattress at the doctor confirmed that last thought in his mind.

Those piercing iris’ glinting in the small leak of light that came through the slightly parted curtains captured the doctor, locking on like the crosshairs of a snipers rifle.  His hair tussled, curls dangling down over his forehead and right temple, made the feeling of butterflies move higher in his chest, as though they meant to escape.  His quirked mouth parted.  “That wasn’t my—“

“Yes.  It was.” John sighed resignedly.  Knowing that the genius was already assessing the way with which the doctor had enunciated those last three words through grit teeth and would still be unable to pinpoint the reason why, the doctor brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, attempting to take the time to marshal his reserve and cool his jets.  He wasn’t truly upset with Sherlock.  It was the waking part that had started this whole mess and the other man had had no part in that, now had he. 

Still it was the other man’s growing impatience and inability to process the thoughts barreling through John’s mind that addressed the elephant in the room.  “You’re not going to stay—“

“I just might.” John finished, still grunting through grit teeth. 

Sleeping together was still new too.  John wasn’t use to sharing his bunk, especially not with the long limbs of his current partner.  Sherlock was the reason that sleep was growing harder to come by these days, now in more ways than one.  The doctor was desirous that very moment for the reason why he was allowing himself to be in his current predicament, when the answer fell into his lap.  With a rustle of bedclothes a weight dropped down from above, the warmth of the other’s body suddenly atop his own, lithe legs straddling his middle with a moan worthy grind of hips that surprisingly sent the doctor’s pulse racing.  The twitch of his swollen member meeting with an equally excited partner. 

John stopped thinking and it was in that moment that his face was captured by delicate fingers and his mouth by eager full lips—succinctly ending his current and admittedly short lived dilemma.

**Author's Note:**

> And it is safe to say that there was little sleep had after. 
> 
> "Quickly, John, a new case!"
> 
> "Mmrfph...sleep?"
> 
> "Cigarettes and coffee!"
> 
> "Mmrrmmfff....yes...yes, Sherlock, I'm coming."
> 
> Thanks for baring with me:) First Johnlock but I thoroughly enjoyed writing it so perhaps there will be more in the future.


End file.
